Bar Refaeli

February 12, 2009

I don't get out much. Reading some of these missives ought to make that obvious. Really, think about it... I write about sports (exclusively), get to a ballgame or a hundred every year and live in Lancaster, Pa.

Nope, not much happening here.

But even a sheltered dude like me knows old-fashioned when he sees it and this time it was shoved through the mail slot in my door. So when I walked over to pick up the pile of magazines and junk mail on the ground, I saw Bar Refaeli staring coquettishly from behind a bank statement.

But rather than going for the rather flimsy-feeling magazine, I went for the bank statement. After all, in this age the fact that the bank is actually telling me I have money is the biggest turn-on.

Bar Refaeli?

Yawn...

Look, as one of those so-called red-blooded Americans, I like half-naked women as much as the next person. Think about it... what else do Americans really do well any more. There's all-you-can-eat buffets; spiraling, out-of-control credit debt; and scantily clad men and women. That's us.